A little girl in yellow has not stopped staring at me with an unpleasant look ever since she's set her eyes on me. A woman stands beside her, the similar snooty features implicating her at the girl's mother, was more subtle than her daughter. But the curl in her lip is still visible to my eyes from where I'm seated.
Boredom drives me to make conversation with Marie after an hour or two of watching other guests mingle and dance. While I'm still spellbound by the dazzling silhouettes of swirling fabric and the glistening decorations, they don't hide the core of rot and malice within.
"Marie, isn't it pretty in here?" I ask, making a show of admiring the room as the low-key orchestra in the corner jump into another pleasing melody. I know that someone accustomed to wealth would not be so startled by the hall the Spring Ball is taking place in, but if I truly wanted to fit in with the people here, I have a feeling it would look silly, like a child playing dress-up.
